


Cradle and All

by Nikolai_Knight



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Anxiety, Asperger Syndrome, Autism, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, M/M, Murder Husbands, Post-Canon, coulrophobia, references to murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:34:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24375868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nikolai_Knight/pseuds/Nikolai_Knight
Summary: Hannibal paints the nursery for their newborn son.After an ill-chosen design choice, Hannibal learns more about his husband.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 17
Kudos: 120
Collections: Banned Banned Together Bingo 2020





	Cradle and All

“No,” said Will.

He leaned against the doorframe. A breeze came in through the nursery windows, enough to ruffle the curls of his brown hair, and it brushed against the bare skin of his arms, where it brought goose-bumps to the tanned flesh. The rolled-up sleeves were tight about his elbows, as the rest of the thick shirt protected him from the cold. He narrowed his eyes. A flare to his nostrils betrayed his attempt at a stoic façade, as he looked slowly over the room.

The windows were thrown open as wide as the latch allowed, while the windowsills were filled with various paints and brushes and glasses. A sunbeam caught at the water in one glass. The liquid was murky, with swirls of colours dashed through its middle, but clear enough to shine a light on Hannibal. He knelt just below the window. The old sweater-vest was marked with a very subtle speck of white paint, but otherwise no stains or marks were visible on his old – yet smart – attire. He turned to look over his shoulder, as he raised a blond eyebrow and asked:

“Is there a problem, Will?”

Will swallowed hard. The open collar and rolled up sleeves were subtle, almost as subtle as a streak of red paint along a perfectly shaved cheek, and yet somehow – for one so impeccable – he looked positively dishevelled. He knelt on a selection of old newspapers, while tape lined the skirting boards and windowsill to protect from the paint and keep a perfect line. There was an almost imperceptible frown to his forehead. Will pressed back from the frame, where he walked to the corner of the nursery with a slouch, as he shoved his hands into his pockets.

He stopped over the cradle. The wooden spindles were hand-carved, with intricate designs, and it rocked a little in time with the breeze, so that the small babe chirped and giggled. Will smiled. It was still possible to detect the ‘new baby smell’ over the faint smell of paint, and tiny little hands reached upwards with grabbing motions, as huge green eyes blinked opened and close. He slid his hands beneath Milo and lifted him up, as he cradled him against his chest and said:

“I’m _not_ having scary-ass clowns on the nursery walls.”

The vista on the walls was complete; local Lithuanian farmlands were depicted with perfect clarity and complexity, with the painted skies depicting a perfect sunset, but the beauty was at odds with clowns depicted across the various fields. They were slowly growing in numbers. The white faces bore huge red smiles, and the eyes were large and soulless. Will bounced Milo against his chest; one hand bore the weight of the buttocks, and the other hand patted a rhythmic tune against his back, while he bit hard into the inside of his cheek. Hannibal asked:

“Oh? Are they not to your liking?”

“How are they to _anyone’s_ liking?” Will shook his head. “I thought they banned those things from schools and hospitals. I always remember as a kid at the doctors’ office; you’d be scared out of your brain anyway, but then these _things_ would be staring down at you from the walls . . . white, featureless faces with absurd costumes and a total lack of personal space.”

“The children at the hospital where I worked adored them.”

“They lied,” said Will dryly.

Hannibal sighed. He grabbed at the edge of the windowsill, as he braced his weight and struggled to stand with the wall still wet to the touch, and – as he stood upright – he pushed the knuckles of his fist into the small of his back, while his back arched with considerable flexibility. There was a slight flare to his nostrils, while his lips were pursed into a thin line. He turned. The paintbrush in his hand was still covered in bright blue paint, while half-coloured hair of one clown bore the remnants of the unnatural hue, and Will tightened his grip on Milo. He kissed at the black locks.

“The children were stimulated by the bright colours,” said Hannibal. “They would make stories about the murals on the walls, while finding their simplicity charming and the content easier to comprehend, as opposed to complex murals that would attract adult attention. They could also attempt to draw what they saw, which gave them hours of fun when waiting for treatment.”

“Okay, and how did they sleep?”

“I fail to understand the relevance of the question.”

“I bet they slept badly, right? All those creepy demonic eyes on them . . .”

“If they slept badly, I assume it would be to physical pain and the emotional trauma of being away from home, but – as I worked mostly in the emergency room – I can honestly say that it was not an issue I regularly came across. Do you find such images inherently threatening, Will?”

The final question was quickly thrown out. It took on a different tone, one more upbeat and with an upward inflection at the end, and the smile returned to otherwise frowning cheeks, as Hannibal strode across the nursery with swift and deliberate steps. He stopped just before the changing table, where the antique rocking chair sat just beside. A small cloth sat atop of the finely embroidered cushion, which he took up to wipe away the paint from his hands, and he refused to look in Will’s direction, even as Will let out a hiss of breath and coldly said:

“You know John Wayne Gacy was a clown.”

“I believe so was Ronald McDonald.”

“Look, it sets a bad precedent, doesn’t it?” Will rolled his eyes. “Do you know how he killed most of his victims? He would lure them to his house, after gaining their trust, and trick them into donning handcuffs as part of a clowning routine. We teach children day after day to never talk to or trust a stranger, but you want this boy to grow up surrounded by _clowns_?

“John Wayne Gacy was convicted of thirty-three murders, and most of which were young men that he _raped_ and _tortured_ , and some of his crimes were even committed as ‘Pogo the Clown’. He even drew self-portraits of himself in his clown costume! That’s the kind of person that likes clowns . . . scary child-rapists and murderers. Sure, let’s just groom him into trusting those sorts of people now, and maybe we’ll find his body in a crawl-space next time the circus visits.”

“I never realised you had such a deep-rooted phobia, Will.”

“It’s – It’s not a phobia. It’s not irrational . . .”

He extended the fingers of his right hand. It was as close as possible to a wringing gesture, while Milo continued to be bounced against his chest, and that tiny ear – so cute, so sensitive – pressed itself against his shirt, where it likely heard his quickening heartbeat. He pressed his nose against that head of black hair, while eyelids struggled to stay open over green eyes, and he breathed deep the scent of homemade lotions and powders. Will counted each breath, as his arms tensed and shoulders hunched forward. He stepped back towards the door, as Hannibal said:

“I would consider it irrational to believe all clowns to be murderers.”

“I’m not _saying_ all clowns are murderers, just that -!”

Will rolled his eyes, while he spun around. He kept his back to Hannibal. The sigh that followed was barely audible, but soft footsteps sounded out with the familiar pitter-patter of sock-covered feet on brand-new carpet. The footsteps stopped behind him. A pair of hands took a hold of his upper arms, with a grip soft enough to be intimate and firm enough to prevent movement, and a soft pair of lips pressed themselves against the stubble of his neck. He leaned his head to the side for better access, before Hannibal wrapped his arms around his waist. Will muttered:

“It’s difficult for me, okay?”

“Oh? I was not aware you had bad experiences with clowns.”

“I haven’t as such.” Will sighed. “Look, I was never officially diagnosed, but . . . we both know that _were_ I to go for testing that I’d pretty much be guaranteed a diagnosis of Asperger Syndrome. Well . . . Autism Spectrum Disorder, I suppose, now the DSM has changed.”

“I fail to see an immediate connection to your fear of clowns.”

“It’s just . . . I struggle to read people, okay? I know I have a capacity for empathy that goes beyond the norm, and I know that I can pass as neurotypical if I try, but people seem to look at me and think that somehow that makes me ‘normal’, like I have no real difficulties except for ‘caring too much’. It’s not like that, though. I really have to work hard to understand people.”

“You seem to understand me rather well, in a way no one else could.”

“I knew you well enough to know you were confused, but amused. You felt close to me, but – at the same time – you felt _just_ a little bit offended that you’d go to all this trouble to paint the nursery and I’ve insulted what you’ve done. You’re patiently waiting for an explanation that will help you work out how to react; anger, sadness, understanding -? They all lie lurking behind your mask of calmness, as you wait to see which one gets control over the others.

“Do you know how I knew? I analyse you. I had to read you like I do a crime scene, and it’s _exhausting_ . . . I had to see how you half-smiled, but without the canine teeth showing, and how the corners of your eyes crinkled just a little, but they narrowed despite the low light. You angled your body towards me, but you also kept your arms up and your shoulders are tensed. I could hear a slight upward inflection at the end of your words, too. It all came together.

“I then have to take all those individual actions and interpret them, not only alone but also in context of one another, and without them . . . I’m at a disadvantage. It’s why I loathe phone conversations, as I’m left with only _one_ thing to work from, and tone of voice often requires other visual or tactile cues in order to fully decipher. I find things difficult, okay.”

The hands on his hands loosened their grip. Hannibal slowly came around to stand before him, but his fingers remained on Will the entire journey from back to front. They trailed over his bare forearm, where the hot touch burned in an unpleasant manner, before they came around the hand upon Milo and slowly came up his chest to his chin. Will half-closed his eyes and turned his gaze towards the door, but the hand grabbed at his chin with a firm hold. It moved his head. It forced his eyes to lock with those Hannibal. He swallowed hard, as tried to fight away the distractions.

There were a few more lines at the corners, while beneath the eye was puffier than before, and there was a slight discolouration to the white of one, albeit it was at the far corner. The iris itself had a small freckle. It moved each time Hannibal’s eyes flickered, enough that Will struggled to concentrate . . . half-formed words were born and died on his lips . . . Hannibal smiled, while his eyes narrowed and his head lowered. He let go of Will. He stepped back with a chuckle.

“I find socialisation is exhausting for that reason,” whispered Will. “If you spend a whole day working out problems, whether it’s maths or science or something medical, it drains you to the point that you need to recharge, just like if you were doing something physical.”

“What has this to do with clowns, Will?”

“They cake themselves in make-up. They wear baggy costumes. It means I can’t read their facial expressions, or properly judge their body movements, and when they’re often _loud_ and coming right at you or other people -? I don’t know if it’s aggressive or part of the act. I don’t know if they’re laughing _at_ me or _with_ me. I’m in an alien world, where I’m expected to just ‘know’ the rules and expectations, but I have no idea what’s happening or why or how to react.

“They’re like . . . _robots_. The only difference is that robots have to abide by the Three Laws of Robotics, so I _know_ I’m not in any danger around them. If I lunged at you now, while screaming and spraying you in the face with a strange liquid -? I bet you’d attack me in self-defence. I don’t understand how anyone can view that as anything other than an imminent threat.”

Hannibal nodded. The smile softened, along with his eyes. He stepped forward toward Will, before his hand came around the back of his neck, and his long fingers slid deep into the curly locks of hair, while the palm pressed with some strength. It struck a nerve, as Will tilted back his head with a hiss of breath. Hannibal pressed a chaste kiss to his lips. It lingered for several long seconds, before he pulled back and kissed Milo’s head. He laughed as Milo yawned in response. The small mouth opened wide, while a tiny hand fisted against Will’s shirt. Hannibal whispered:

“If I am correct, it seems that you struggle to read them due to your developmental disorder. You thus have an instinctual panic, as you fail to perceive any potential threats, and added to this is the pressure of social interaction, as others need you to react in a specific manner.”

“I’ve never really liked masks for that same reason.”

“I can understand your fear.” Hannibal smiled. “I will repaint the faces; I am sure I can turn the clowns into woodland elves with little effort, and I have not yet progressed so far into the mural as to make it a difficult task. It was not my intent to scare you, Will, and I can only apologise for having evoked this fear from within you. I will bear it in mind for future.”

Hannibal nodded again. He walked back towards the first of the clowns, where he knelt down and chose a thicker brush and dunked it into white paint. The faces were soon in the process of being entirely erased, like pure blank slates, and it sent a shiver though Will, who saw the faces as he saw all faces without the applied analysis and decipherment. It was impossible to recognise them as clowns, but somehow that was somehow worse. He tensed. Milo burst out into a loud wail, startling him and causing his arms to jerk, and Milo cried louder. Hannibal observed:

“It seems our son dislikes the clowns, too.”

Will hushed at Milo, while he resumed the usual bounces. He walked quickly over to the rocking chair, where he sat down and changed Milo’s position, and – with Milo on his back, resting on Will’s arm – the chair rocked in a slow and steady rhythm. It softened the cries, as Milo yawned again and closed his eyes. He would try to open them every so often, as if fighting sleep out of fear of missing some wondrous event, and Will smiled even as his eyes watered and hand trembled. He pushed back a lock of black hair, while Hannibal continued to paint.

“There’s one more thing that frightens me, Hannibal.”

“Oh? What is that, _mano meilė_?”

The paintbrush stopped just above the last clown. The bright eyes watched from the otherwise scenic vista, as if burrowing themselves inside Will, and Will held Milo as tightly as possible without disturbing the newborn babe. On the wall beside him, an array of framed photographs smiled down at him. It was at odds with the scary clown mural. He saw Alana beside Margot at the altar, and Jack and Bella on an Italian bridge, and a black-and-white photograph of Mischa stared out beyond the polished glass. Will let loose a shuddered breath, before he choked out:

“Whose child is this?”

The racing of his heart echoed loud. It drowned out all other sounds. Every breath was fast and shallow, as if he were choking on the air itself, and he held Milo ever higher, while he angled his body away from the mural and away from Hannibal. The umbilical cord lay hidden beneath the expensive romper-suit and small knitted jacket, and his tiny feet were still wrinkled underneath the tiny boots. Hannibal put down his brush. He stood. Will screwed shut his eyes, while he fought back the bile in the back of his throat and the taste of iron on his tongue.

“He’s our baby, Will,” said Hannibal. “Don’t you remember?”

Will opened his eyes wide. Hannibal smiled, as he slowly walked the chair. He stood beside the changing table, where a few more personal photographs stood just above . . . _the two of them in white suits upon a beach, a professional portrait taken last Christmas, a selfie taken in bed after laughter that left them in tears . . ._ a low hum fell from Hannibal. Will choked back on the air itself, as he fought back the urge to hyperventilate. He quickly mumbled out:

“Hannibal, Milo is a great kid, but –”

“It is not uncommon for new parents to have doubts,” said Hannibal. “A child is a huge responsibility, after all, but if you believe you will not cope . . . if you are rejecting our Milo at this early a stage . . . well, that is a concern. Do I need to be concerned, Will?”

Hannibal brushed his fingers over the photo-frames. He stopped at the image of Abigail. The smile fell from his expression, as a sound between a hum and a groan tumbled from his tight lips, and he angled his body toward Will, while forcing prolonged eye-contact. Abigail looked beautiful immortalised behind the glass . . . as beautiful as Mischa, as lost as Mischa . . . the memories were still strong, the love still lingering, and the pain still fresh.

Will grew light-headed. A few bright sparks broke across his eyesight, while his vision narrowed like in the midst of a tunnel, and a cold sweat broke over every inch of skin, until his dark shirt slicked itself to his flesh with the unwanted moisture. Hannibal tapped at the image of Abigail, as if absentmindedly moving his finger for the sake of movement. Will opened his mouth. The inside ran dry, while his tongue moved with a lack of sound, and – forcing a bright smile – he nodded toward Hannibal and pressed a kiss to Milo’s head. Hannibal brightened.

“We have a beautiful son,” lied Will.

The clowns no longer seemed so terrible, as Hannibal knelt before them. The smile brought lines to the corners of his eyes, deepening them and making him seem far older than his years, and his soft hand came out to stroke at the chubby cheeks that only a child could possess. Will fought back the urge to flinch, even as his heart raced to the point of feeling faint. Hannibal leaned forward. He kissed at the forehead with a reverent and lingering touch, before he pulled back with tears pricking at his eyes and distorting their shape. Hannibal smile and whispered:

“Indeed, our son is perfect . . .”


End file.
